His to Keep (Beauty and the Brit) (2 page)

* * *

Iain Chapman listened as his lawyer explained about the new economic regulations, zoning details, and ecological classifications that had just been enacted. But as Stan droned on, Iain became more agitated. “For fuck’s sake, Stan, cut to the chase and tell me how all this is going to impact the land we want to develop. Preferably in English.” Iain couldn’t take one more acronym—NEDA, CDBG, SBA, USGS. It was giving him a bloody headache, it was. In his right hand, he rubbed a pair of red dice back and forth. It was a habit Iain had acquired over the years, one he couldn’t seem to shake.

Stan Daniels sighed deeply. He seemed to do that a lot around Iain—who had probably paid for the three-thousand-dollar suit the prat was wearing. So he could save his sighs for other clients, because Iain wasn’t having it.

“Cut the drama, mate. Just give me the highlights already.”

“Let the man talk, Iain. It’s why we’re paying him, innit?” From the window overlooking the busy street, Marcus Atwell turned to face them, all the while stroking his chin—a sure sign he was worried. But that was nothing new. It was when Marc started playing with his floppy hair that Iain knew real trouble was brewing.

“What this means,” Stan said, “is you’ll pay more in taxes, shell out more for inspections, and have to jump through more governmental regulation hoops. Get used to it.”

“How much more are we talking about here?” Iain asked.

“A couple million, give or take.”

Iain pushed back his chair and stood, pocketing the dice as he walked across the room. “That sounds like pocket change to you, does it?” Stan came from money and had gone to a fancy Ivy League school—probably grew up using hundred-dollar bills to wipe his privileged ass.

“Do we really have to do this today?” Stan asked. “It’s pocket change to you too, Iain. You have a multimillion-dollar project you want to implement. This is a drop in the bucket.”

“He’s right, Iain,” Marc said. “We’re not the poor lads from Manchester anymore. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

At the credenza in the corner, Iain poured coffee from an antique silver pot. Drinking from the delicate china cups always made him feel faintly ridiculous, but it added to the traditional British decor. No sense in having four-thousand-dollar Chippendale chairs only to drink from a cheap ceramic mug. Presentation was important. And two million really wasn’t much in the bigger scheme of things, but he didn’t take any of it for granted, not a bloody penny.

“Send us copies detailing the changes, and cc my project manager, yeah?” Iain sipped his coffee—strong, black, bitter. He glanced over at Stan. “Was there something else? I’m getting billed for every moment you stand there looking like a twat.”

The bald man smiled. “I don’t charge for looking like a twat. That one’s on the house.” He bent to pick up his briefcase. “Always a pleasure, Iain.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nice seeing you, too.” Stan nodded at both men and left the room.

Once he was gone, Marc paced the floor. “She’s coming this morning?”

“Yeah. Should be here in a few.”

“We don’t need to do this,” Marc said. “There are other investors. We could develop the properties slowly, take our time.”

“And we may have to,” Iain said with a shrug, “if this doesn’t pan out.”

“It probably won’t. Brynn Campbell might hate you on sight—and I wouldn’t blame her, because you’re a bit of a blighter, truth be told. And if she finds out you set her up, she could turn Trevor Blake against us.”

“It’ll work, trust me. Hiring Brynn’s firm is a stroke of genius. We need a fresh partner for this project. One with deep pockets. Who better than Trevor Blake? If we’re really lucky, Brynn’s other brother-in-law, Cal Hughes, might throw in with us. Those two have loads to spare, good business sense, and Trevor’s name carries weight in this town. I went over every other angle I could think of, and Brynn Campbell is the weak link.” A lovely one at that.

The first time he’d laid eyes on her had been at an evening garden party, a benefit for her family’s cancer foundation. He’d paid a fortune for a ticket in hopes of meeting Trevor. While wandering through the garden, Iain had spotted Brynn, and he’d been struck immobile. It wasn’t just her beauty or that delicate, graceful quality that captured his attention. No, it was the way she held herself apart from the crowd and observed everyone around her, as if, despite being who she was—the sister-in-law of the wealthiest man in Vegas—she didn’t quite feel comfortable in her posh surroundings. It had reminded him, uncomfortably, of himself.

And he hadn’t been able to look away.

He’d watched her for the better part of an hour. Though she tried to hide in plain sight, Iain couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He
saw her clearly, so why couldn’t anyone else? And when he’d begun to approach her, she’d turned on her heel and flitted away, into Trevor’s monstrously large house. Trevor had also disappeared before Iain could introduce himself. Nevertheless, he’d stayed until the end of the party, hoping to catch another glimpse of Brynn, without any luck. She’d stuck in his head ever since, though he couldn’t for the life of him say why. Now he was finally going to meet her properly. About bloody time, too. All it took was an elaborate ruse and several thousand dollars to draw her out of her hidey-hole.

Not that this was about Brynn, he told himself. He had a goal. He was going to stay focused on that goal—she was just a bloody bonus.

“It feels wrong,” Marc said, “using this girl to get to her relatives. Seedy, yeah?”

“It’s called networking. No different than glad-handing at a cocktail party or going to a charity dinner in order to meet serious players. It’s just business. You know we’ve tried every other avenue. Blake’s lawyer won’t return our calls. I even tried to play up the expat angle with him, but I couldn’t get a meeting. Trevor Blake is a bloody fortress.”

Marc stopped treading over the hand-loomed rug. “While I’m not convinced that this is our best solution, the course she’s teaching might actually do you some good. Your leadership skills are a bit lacking, aren’t they?”

Iain paused, the cup midway to his lips. “What the bloody hell are you on about?” Iain was leadership personified. He had the portfolio and bank balance to prove it. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I lead, mate. I get results.”

“You do,” Marc agreed. “But you also hack off a lot of people. And those you don’t offend are scared shitless of you.”

“Good.” He didn’t give a damn if people feared him, as long as they did their jobs properly. This wasn’t a popularity contest. No one got a prize for congeniality. “If they don’t like working here, they’re free to quit.”

“Which explains our high turnover rate. You could stand to be a little nicer to people. Wouldn’t kill you none, would it?”

“I expect people to show up and do their jobs. In return, we pay them very well at the end of each week. I’m not their mate. End of.”

“The accounting department nearly piss themselves every time you walk into the room,” Marc said.

“And?” Nothing wrong with that—at least his employees respected him.

“My gran used to say you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“That’s daft. Why would I want to catch flies?” Strolling to his chair, Iain carefully set the cup and saucer on his desk, then tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat before resuming his seat. “This scheme is going to work. Brynn Campbell will give me a pointless lesson, I’ll be charming, she’ll be charmed, and in turn, I’ll ask her for an introduction to Trevor Blake. In the meantime, you make sure our proposal is sorted, yeah?”

“I’m on it, but I still say your management style could use an overhaul.”

“Bugger off. By the way, how’s Melanie? Haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“Fine.” Marc combed his fingers through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before. “Things are fine.”

Something was definitely going on there, but if Marc didn’t want to talk about it, Iain wouldn’t pry—it was none of his concern as long as it didn’t interfere with business. “We can’t afford to have you distracted right now. I need you focused on this project.”

Marc’s blue eyes turned glacial. “Since when have I ever cocked-up on a project? I’ll do my bit, you do your part. But if we’re relying on your
charm
, we could be in real trouble.”

“Funny,” Iain said to Marc’s retreating back. The door shut with a click behind him.

Management training nonsense—Iain couldn’t think of anything more useless. And his
management style
didn’t need an overhaul. He and Marc had built this company from nothing, in spite of a crap economy. Fine, Iain was sometimes harsh with his employees, but if they couldn’t handle it, they probably didn’t belong there. Besides, he didn’t get his jollies from being cruel. Everything he did, every decision he made, was for the benefit of Blue Moon.

A few moments later, Amelia knocked on the door and slipped into the room. “Iain, your appointment’s here.” Ames was a lovely woman—professional-looking in a conservative black dress. No one would have ever guessed that they’d met in a strip club.

Iain had been a bouncer, Ames a bartender. When the business started taking off, he’d brought her on board full time—steady hours, full bennies. With her disarming warmth and bright smile, Amelia made his visitors feel welcomed. In fact, they were so comfortable by the time they entered his office, they’d lowered their guard. And Iain took advantage of it. She was the honey, and he was the vinegar. Flies, indeed.

Until now, he hadn’t realized he’d been fondling the dice once again. Shoving them into his pocket, he stood and donned his jacket. Then he smoothed his lapels and straightened his tie. When Amelia didn’t move, he glanced up at her. “What’s the problem?”

She shook her head. “No problem.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Iain, your trainer’s a woman.”

He hadn’t told Amelia about his plans for Brynn Campbell. His assistant would disapprove, and then she’d nag. No, it was better that he and Marc keep this scheme to themselves. “So?”

“She’s very pretty, and she seems so nice. Just for once…don’t be yourself.”

He reared his head back at her words. “What the bloody hell is wrong with everyone today?” Attacking his leadership skills, questioning his ability to be civil. Iain could do civil…when he put his mind to it. “I’ll be myself, thank you. If you don’t like it, sod off, Ames.”

She wagged her finger. “Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Do the opposite of that.” When she disappeared through the door, he faced the window and looked out at his seven-million-dollar view. Seven-point-two-five, if one wanted to be technical. And when it came to money, Iain was always technical.

The morning sun slanted through the tinted window. If he stood at the right angle, he could catch a glimpse of jagged, brown mountains in the distance. The palm trees lining the street below swayed in the breeze, reminding him that he was in the middle of a desert. He never grew tired of seeing this. Nothing in Vegas was real—it was all a facade. The buildings, the people—all transitory. And Iain loved every bloody bit of it.

He heard the door open and, after a long pause, close. Her footsteps were hesitant and light across the gold onyx floor.

“Hello.” Her voice was soft, feminine—young. The sound of it made his heart pound. She couldn’t run from him today, couldn’t hide in the shadows. He had her right where he wanted her.

Iain slowly turned, a smile fixed on his face. But as he once again locked eyes on Brynn, desire slammed into his gut like a sucker punch. The pictures in Iain’s drawer, the ones he’d printed from the extensive background check, didn’t do her justice. Ames had called her pretty, which was also inadequate. From his memory, he knew she was beautiful, but with the morning sun shining on her at an angle, she was the most bloody gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.

Iain thought he knew everything about Brynn Hope Campbell, from her shopping habits to her tax returns. He knew what hobbies she favored and the classes she’d taken in college. But nothing had prepared him for meeting her in the flesh.

His gaze moved over her, taking in her slight frame. Then his eyes swept over her again. And a third time. With every pass, he noticed something different. The color of her hair wasn’t merely brown—it was tobacco brown with burnished-gold highlights. Her eyes weren’t ordinary blue—they were navy. She wore leather flip-flops. Her toenails were varnished the same shade as her turquoise necklace. She carried a black binder in one hand, like a schoolgirl.

Lightly tanned, her skin glowed along high, smooth cheekbones. Her features were dainty, fragile—a lovely setting for those big, dark eyes. Her chin drew to a sharp point below a mouth that was too wide for such a delicate face.
Innocent.
The word floated through Iain’s mind, but he immediately banished it. No one was innocent—not in this town.

Brynn was on the petite side, but her legs appeared long and slender. The white, loose blouse flowed over her torso, skimming her small tits. The V-shaped collar left her neck and throat bare. Iain’s gaze fell to the wedge of visible golden skin. That sliver of flesh had his cock twitching. He wanted to see more. No, that wasn’t true. Iain was a greedy bastard—he wanted to see everything.

She’d pulled her wavy hair into a low ponytail, but a lone curl refused to be confined and brushed against her squared jaw. She appeared almost fey—a wisp of a woman who might blow away with the gentlest breeze.